


It's just a Silly Phase

by Isailaway



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isailaway/pseuds/Isailaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard has a puzzle to solve - does he want to deal with the answer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's just a Silly Phase

**Author's Note:**

> This is supposed to be set at the same time as my song fic "Believe in Me" and it may help if you have read that one first. Timeline is after episode 2;7.  
> My thanks to Katedf. I wander into discussing what Richard thinks of song lyrics as does she in her lovely fic "Waiting for the next Perigee".  
> Song is by 10cc. TV series and Characters are not mine either.

Richard loved music. He always had.

To most of his acquaintances he knew it might – and had in the past – come as a surprise given his frequent complaints about the constant level of white noise emitted from apparently everywhere these days. 

Tinny voices would screech from the small radio on Dwayne’s desk. A heavy thudding drumbeat would travel across the beach, vibrating the very bed he slept in each night and he was constantly being jostled by headphone wearing youths as he made his way through the market daily, noisy rap leaking from earphones that would surely lead to premature deafness at some point in the future. 

But for all that, he had a private appreciation of music in all its different forms. From the balance and symmetry of classical music, to the solid back beat of the drums in a rock song, from the unpredictable improvisation of jazz to the unique harmonies and strong rhythms of blues. He tended to stay away from popular culture with its catchy tunes, which would be played so often on radio stations and in bars that they always ended up grating upon him, a fact that Camille had cottoned onto quickly following his Beyoncé comment but had so far failed to change despite turning the radio on in the defender every time they got into it, trying to educate him on each singer and song that was played. 

Lyrics bothered him more. He appreciated that matching words to their music was a difficult process, and what most were striving for was an emotional connection but honestly! When you really looked at them, half of them made not the slightest bit of sense. Even the personal narrative in traditional blues songs could, in his opinion veer towards fiction rather than fact.

Sat at his desk, alone in the office whilst the heat from the day slowly faded, Richard turned the piece of paper he had been scribbling upon over in his hand; the lyrics to a song that Catherine had taken to playing in her bar over the last few weeks. 

He had enjoyed the tune, the choral backing and the soft percussion in the track washing over him. He had even found himself humming it late at night as he looked through case files, or on a morning as he mashed up mangoes for Harry. But it had started to bother him. The last few times it had been played whilst he was out with the team he had felt uncomfortable; had shuffled awkwardly in his seat and tried to distract himself, and them until the song was over. 

He couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Feeling uncomfortable around people in a social setting was nothing new but having these feelings because of an old song? Heck he even remembered listening to it as a child! It was a puzzle.

So after his colleagues had departed for the day, he decided to address the problem. He had been avoiding going out with the team to prevent the discomfort, and far from nagging him, Camille had appeared to retreat into herself, become quieter and more distant. Unusual but not something he was really prepared to dwell upon; he had never understood women and wouldn’t know where to start. No. It would be far better, or more productive at least to be attending to his own issues; probably amounting to a grammatical error in the song somewhere that his subconscious had picked up on.

Richard glanced down at the opening lines, hearing the introductory instrumental build then fade to make way for the vocalist. 

_I’m not in love,_  
 _So don’t forget it,_  
 _It’s just a silly phase I’m going through……_

Thoughts of Camille flooded his mind, and he frowned briefly. He re-read the opening lines, but the words suddenly echoing around his head were hers, her soft lilting accent replacing the male singers voice. Words spoken on an other-worldly night spent sheltering from the storm. _“You don’t need to anymore. You’ve got me.”_

He often felt that night was a dream, or the result of the knock on the head. Concussion did affect people in many different ways and since the conversation had not been referred to again, he could reasonably confidently assert that it hadn’t occurred quite the way he remembered it. If at all. The only definite fact he could distinguish was the position he had been woken in the next morning; hand nestled against Camille’s cheek. It had been hugely embarrassing for him to be caught in such an improper situation by his junior officers, compounded by Camille’s sleepily murmured words.

And he hadn’t been able to ask her; how could he ask her if what happened in his head had really happened?

Richard screwed his eyes tightly shut and ran a hand across his forehead frustratedly before trying to refocus on the words in front of him.

_I like to see you,_  
 _But then again,_  
 _That doesn’t mean you mean that much to me……._

The first line resonated. He was looking forward to walking out of his front door each and every morning, had caught himself in the bathroom mirror the other day, almost smiling upon hearing the rumble of the defenders engine pulling up outside. He was vaguely aware that work alone, whilst fulfilling and absorbing, had never caused that level of anticipation in him before. 

_I’m not in love, no, no,_  
 _It’s because……_

He stared blankly at the handwritten page. Confused. Because?

_Be quiet, big boys don’t cry……_

Richards Dad had educated him to believe that, a product of his own generation. One of Richards’s formative memories was falling over and rasping his knees. In his opinion, shallow scrapes always hurt more than deeper cuts and grazes and this had been no exception. His four-year-old self had burst into noisy tears on the street and his Father had not been able to deal with the outpouring of emotion in a public place. He had been marched back home, trip to the playground forgotten. Snot and tears mixing on his face; he could still remember clearly the salty sticky tang as it dribbled across his lips. 

“Look son, you’re a big boy now. Big boys don’t cry even if it stings a bit. It’s an important lesson to learn and you might as well learn it now.”

Richard didn’t think he had ever cried in public again although he knew when he had come closest and that was when Camille’s friend had died so suddenly. Murdered. He had found himself blinking furiously to control the pricking sensation at the back of his eyes whilst watching her try to work. It had been so difficult to focus on getting the job done, he had so badly wanted to be the person she turned to for support and had felt a physical pain when she cried in his presence.

_I keep your picture upon the wall,_  
 _It hides a nasty stain that’s lying there………._

Richard nearly dropped the paper – his noisy and surprised recognition somewhere between a laugh and a cough. Camille had given him a photo at Christmas. One of the team - the four of them, it had been taken without their knowledge at La Kaz as they celebrated another successful case. Whoever had taken the snap, probably Catherine, had caught his mouth stretched into a rare expansive smile, eyes focused on Camille as they chinked beer and teacup together. He had grumbled at the time that if it was supposed to be a team photo then it hadn’t been very effective on two counts. Firstly it could have been taken at the Station, in better lighting by someone with slightly more skill, so that the snap looked more professional, sharper and less grainy. His second point was that no one was actually looking at the camera. Only half of Fidel’s head and arm could be seen, as he sat with his back to the camera whilst Dwayne appeared to be holding a conversation with a young lady from another table.

Camille had huffed loudly and snatched the framed photo back and a momentary panic had gripped him with the thought she might go and leave him to his Christmas day alone. He had started to consider how one could go about taking back words already spoken when she paced across his small room and placed the present in a prominent place on his dresser, covering a large water stain that he hadn’t yet found the right remedy for. She had pronounced that it would be good enough there until he found one more appropriate and then had changed the subject. Maybe his present to her, a copy of Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days, had softened her mood towards him that day. It had been one of the nicest days of his life.

_I’m not in love_  
 _So don’t forget it……._

Oh God. What if he was?

Richard put his head in his hands, feeling slightly nauseous.

He was a logical, rational man and if he dared to analyse himself, all the signs were there. For heavens sake, he couldn’t even listen to a 40 year old pop song without making the stupid, pointless lyrics apply to her when they could have meant a thousand different things to different people.

Richard screwed the paper in his hand up, throwing it in the direction of the bin with some force.

He needed a drink. He needed to deal with the implications of this new theory without his team wondering what he was musing on. 

Another thought hit him. What if she knew already?

She was so good at relationships and psychology, what if she had seen something in his demeanour towards her and that was why she was so distant; she was trying to let him down gently or ward off any difficult conversation. Not that he would ever do anything, even if it were more than a silly phase he was going through.

She was his work colleague; more than that, he was her boss. It was unethical.

She was ten years younger than him.

She was beautiful.

She was confident and sparkling and sensual.

Richard pushed his chair back and headed for the door, the words of the song whirling around his head and mixing hopelessly with thoughts of Camille.


End file.
